


She's here to kick ass and chew bubble gum...and she's never even heard of bubble gum.

by Worffan101



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce
Genre: I blame AH.com, Joffrey is a little shit, Kel and the Hound are drinking buddies, Kel brings girl power to Westeros, Kel is a badass, Kel is a saint, The Author Regrets Nothing, per his idiom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 16:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5672731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Worffan101/pseuds/Worffan101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Keladry of Mindelan and two of her friends show up in Westeros and kick major ass, as there is a lot of deserving ass to be kicked in Westeros.  Oh, and Kel and the Hound become bash buddies, and Joffrey is a little shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She's here to kick ass and chew bubble gum...and she's never even heard of bubble gum.

Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan was woken up, not for the first time, by an explosive _CHEEP!_ in her ear.  
  
"OW! Alright, alright, I'm getting up!" The young woman rose, muttering about sparrows and their eccentricities. She did not worry about possible attackers; the sparrow would have tickled her nose with his tailfeathers if that had been the case, and she'd gone to sleep in her rooms in Corus in any event.  
  
Wait. This definitely wasn't Corus. Kel was in the middle of a forest clearing, sparrows swirling around her head and chirping excitedly as the sun rose. She shivered, crossing her arms to ward against the chill.  
  
"What in the Goddess's name..."  
  
"GAAAAAAHHHH!!" screamed a male voice, one that Keladry recognized. "GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU DEMENTED BEAST!"  
  
Kel turned with a sigh. "Peachblossom, let go of Neal's...Neal, what are you _wearing_?"  
  
The handsome young man in the garish pink and gold costume attempted to hold his head high, despite the horse pretending without success to appear utterly innocent behind him. "A gift from my grandmother, as it happens. I went to sleep in it to honor a promise that she extracted from me to wear this damned silly suit." Neal halted suddenly, realizing the incongruity of waking up in the forest with a horse chewing on his hideous nightclothes. "Wait. What are we doing here? I went to sleep in my bed in the capital, not on some pallet in the middle of nowhere!"  
  
"Keep it down, would you?" grumbled another young man from Kel's right. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"  
  
Neal and Kel both looked at the man, then at each other. They shrugged simultaneously, and unceremoniously dumped their friend from his sleeping mat.  
  
"HEY!" yelped Merric of Hollyrose, rolling and stumbling to his feet. "Why'd you do that....wait. Kel? Neal?"  
  
"Yes. We just woke up here, wherever 'here' is." Kel took a quick look around. "These trees don't look like anything I remember. That one's got bark like an ironthorn, but the leaves are more like an alder."  
  
"I can still feel my magic, and something's delivered my armor and weapons," noted Neal. "Granted the magic's the more useful part of me, but..."  
  
"You can hold your own in a fight and that's good, but I don't plan on getting into any fights until we know what's going on," replied Kel. "Alright, inventory. Three horses, twelve sparrows, one dog--hello, Jump--three suits of armor, each belonging to one of us--Merric, check your gear."  
  
"A week's trail rations, Rider style," reported the redhead. "I have my sword, a bow, a war lance, the battleaxe my father got me as a Midwinter gift, and fifty arrows. You?"  
  
" _Naginata_ , sword, lance, bow, arrows--ten griffin-fletched, thirty normal--mace, and my dagger. I have my hunting knife and a week of rations, Own style, in my pack here, and my flint and steel. Horses are wearing their kit, I've got a brush and a bit of saddle soap here. Looks like my travel kit, I keep it packed just in case. Neal?"  
  
"Seven day's Rider rations, dagger, sword, lance, healer's kit, a couple of--minor magic ointments, just minor infection control, and some parchment. Oh, and my pen and inkwell, thank the gods for those. Would it have _killed_ the gods to provide us with a map?"  
  
"First things first. Make up some makeshift tents, I don't like how cold it is here." Indeed, there was some slight frost on the ground left over from the night. "We've got warm blankets, but we're going to need to make cold-weather gear. Neal, use my flint and steel to start a fire. Merric, start gathering sticks for the fire and for a shelter. I'm going out hunting."  
  
"Yes, sir!" The tone was joking, but the sentiment was sincere; both men had followed Kel into everything from fights with bullies to outright desertion before, and both would happily do it again.  
***  
Kel felt like an utter fool.  
  
Jump and the big wolf, who had accepted the name Dog and a leg from the deer, were standing by her sides, the one growling and the other panting with exhaustion. The mounted men who had pulled up thirty feet away were staring at her like they'd never seen a woman with a bow in their lives. It was probably the griffin-feather headband. Or the sparrows perched on her head.  
  
Damn it Kel wished she was wearing her armor and had her sword and glaive.  
  
"Who are you?" she asked, not quite a shout but not quiet either. "I am a lady knight of Tortall, and Deputy Commander of the Third Company of the King's Own. I know how to use this bow and I will defend myself."  
  
One of the men, a seemingly emotionless man in a fine fur cape with a magnificent greatsword buckled at his side, hand-signaled to the others, who slowly backed their horses up a step, and nudged his own mount forwards. "I have no wish to harm you, my lady. I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North under His Grace King Robert Baratheon, First of his name, King of the Andals, Rhoynars, and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. What are you doing, killing my deer on my lands?"  
  
"My apologies. My friends and I needed the meat for food, I did not intend to poach. When I figure out where I am and contact my family, I will pay whatever fine the law requires." Kel did not lower her bow. Eddard's expression was unchanged; Goddess, was that man carved from stone? "Where am I? I have never heard of your name, house, or fief before."  
  
"You are in the North, part of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Where are you from, to know nothing of Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms?"  
  
"Fief Mindelan, in northern Tortall. It was part of Scanra before the Old King's conquests. My parents arranged the treaty with the Yamani Islands, and I commanded the refugee camps of Haven and New Hope during the war with Scanra four summers ago. I am sorry, but I have not heard of Westeros in my life."  
  
"And I have never heard of your land. How did you come here?"  
  
"I fell asleep in my rooms in Corus, and woke up in a clearing. I am not certain of why, I have never to my knowledge done anything to anger the gods, and neither have my friends."  
  
"Being birds and a dog, I do not see how it is that they could. Are you in need of shelter?"  
  
Kel slowly lowered the bow, but kept the arrow notched. "Yes. I do not have money on my person or with my belongings, but I am a trained knight and my parents are reasonably wealthy, I am certain that we can come to an equitable arrangement."  
  
"No need. It would be dishonorable of me to take advantage of a lady in distress. Please, lead my men to your camp, and I shall give you and your friends succor at Winterfell."  
  
The Westerosi man wasn't planning to have an additional two men, three horses, and six baby direwolves to deal with, but he still honored his word, albeit with the barest trace of a rueful smile. He did, however, mention that he'd been expecting "one half-wilding skinchanger and some birds, not three knights and their strange pets", but the sparrows seemed to like him and especially his fur coat, so Kel gave him the benefit of the doubt.  
***  
"Damn, that King's fat," whispered Merric. Kel elbowed him, hopefully not making too much noise with their armor. "What? It's true!"  
  
Kel agreed with the sentiment, she had to admit. The King had been a big man, almost as big as Sir Raoul, but he'd clearly grown _out_ over his years of ruling. He seemed like a decent sort, though, politely greeting Lady Stark before wrapping Lord Stark in a bear hug, which Lord Stark returned (albeit with a little more restraint).  
  
The Queen was beautiful, to be sure, but otherwise she was the polar opposite of the Queen that Kel knew. Queen Thayet had only very grudgingly pulled out of her leadership role in the Riders to run the realm, and despite her courtly mannerisms still carried weapons on her person at all times. She'd taken to the Yamani "lady fan" like a duck to water, and saved what little haughtiness she could muster for particularly obnoxious lords. This Queen, Cersei, looked like she'd never picked up a blade or even a bow in her life, and practically sneered at everything she saw, which seemed a trifle foolish given that Lord Stark was clearly both unambitious and in favor with the crown, and this entire visit was _about_ giving him a higher position.  
  
The royal family weren't much, either. Joffrey, the eldest, was a handsome blond who reminded Kel just a little too much of Joren of Stone Mountain, the bully who'd been her most dedicated foe as a page. Merric thought so, too, from how he stiffened as Joffrey smiled to Lady Sansa in that same fake way that Joren had to Kel and others. The other children, Tommen and Myrcella, were equally blond, but Tommen was a little boy who gazed wide-eyed at everything, and Myrcella was a dainty thing who blushed easily at Lord Stark's son's polite greeting.  
  
Kel supposed it was fate that Lord Stark ordered her to keep a watch on the children, which soon translated to standing beside a big man called Clegane, half of whose face was ruined by a burn, and keeping a wary eye on Joffrey. Kel tried to start small talk with Clegane, who seemed to snarl at everything he saw and stood a few inches taller than her.  
  
"I am honored to meet you, sir Clegane. I'm Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan." She held out her hand. Clegane sneered.  
  
"I'm no _Ser_."  
  
"My apologies. I only recently arrived in this realm, and am still unfamiliar with proper forms of address."  
  
"That so?" Clegane raised his one remaining eyebrow, but he wasn't sneering at her anymore. "Well, it ain't hard. Kiss up to anyone whose name has "lord" or "ser" attached, give the King wine so he can drink his sorry ass to death, and kiss up to that little streak of piss that I'm sworn to mind like some fucking nursemaid."  
  
"I am not a flatterer," Kel replied with just a hint of a growl.  
  
"Ain't flattery, when it's that little shit you're kissing up to. It's just survival. He's an arrogant little brat and his mother gives him whatever he wants, the King long since stopped caring since it only caused the Queen Bitch to nag him more." Clegane spat. "I don't give a shit, though. Money, booze, and enough whores to fuck myself to death, that's all I'm in for."  
  
"What sort of man is the King, do you think?" asked Kel, conversationally but cautiously. Clegane sneered.  
  
"He ain't worth shit now. Used to be a damn good fighter, back in the day. But then the Mad King's stupid son kidnapped his betrothed. Started a fucking war. The fat King, he never saw her again, sort of broke him, really. That bitch Cersei doesn't help, she's as bad as that fucking brat."  
  
Kel and Clegane watched as Joffrey demanded to be allowed to fence Robb with bare steel, and was quickly denied. Clegane curled his lip as Joffrey began to whine again about how he was the Crown Prince and he demanded to be allowed to fight his way. "What about you, girl? What sort of slut are you, eh?"  
  
"Call me a slut again and you'll be eating your teeth," Kel replied evenly. Clegane started, then chuckled. "I've seen horrors that struck brave men dumb with terror, and killed them."  
  
"Oh, yeah? Not worse than I have. I killed my first man when I was twelve, you ever wet that pretty blade, girl?"  
  
"I killed my first spidren when I was eleven, and my first man a year later. I used a glaive that time, but I've killed men with the sword, too. I fought a man who knowingly took children to a mage who killed them and used their souls to power killing machines. Killed him, killed the mage, left them to be despoiled by Stormwings." Kel's tone stayed even and emotionless.  
  
Clegane grunted in response. They stood silently for a few minutes, watching Joffrey throw a tantrum over not being allowed to fight with bare steel. Clegane finally cleared his throat and spoke up.  
  
"My brother."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He did the burn. I know you want to ask, everyone does, and, well, you may be a ser but you know what it's like, to be a killer, without that honor shit that they talk about."  
  
"Aye. I do." She knew honor as well, both the ridiculous chivalric kind some of the nobility aspired to and the hard, simple kind of the frontier, but she didn't mention that.  
  
"He held me in the fire. Gregor always was a bully; he said I'd taken one of his toys to play with, but I didn't, and he didn't even use it anymore anyway. He burned me anyway."  
  
Kel winced. "I am sorry, I can...no. I cannot imagine what that was like, the worst my brother ever did was hang me from a balcony by my ankles, and my father put a stop to that. I hope that your brother was caught?"  
  
"He was." Clegane's voice was as bitter as poison. "They made him a fucking ser anyway. Rhaegar Targaryen himself did it. Then Gregor killed Rhaegar's son, raped and killed his wife, and they let him stay a fucking ser." He spat the last words, his utter hatred obvious. "And they call me the monster, because I won't be a ser. I'm a fucking killer, I'll be a torturer if I'm paid enough, but I'm not a raper. I won't rape a woman to in front of her son's body like Gregor did, not fucking ever. And they call me the monster and make Gregor a ser."  
  
Kel was speechless. After a moment, she gathered her voice.  
  
"And there was no legal recourse?"  
  
"Here?" Clegane scoffed. "I don't know what fancy pretty place you came from, but here the only way I'll get my revenge is by killing Gregor, on the field or in a duel." He spat. "And Gregor's bigger and stronger than me. The Mountain that Rides, they call him. He's bigger and stronger than me, by far, I can't take him in a duel." He spat again. "Damn snow, melting in my eyes. I fucking hate this fucking country."  
  
"Maybe you just need some backup," Kel offered, not pointing out that there was no snow falling today. "If you can get him on the field against the two of us, I'll help you. We'll shame and beat him in front of the entire realm."  
  
"And why should a girl like you help me?" asked Clegane suspiciously.  
  
"I hate bullies," Kel responded with absolute conviction. Clegane looked askance at her, then grunted in impressed surprise.  
  
"You're a queer one, girl. I'll think about that offer."  
  
Joffrey finally stormed off the field, Robb and Jon Snow trying to stifle laughs as he did so. "HOUND! Come!" Clegane sighed and turned to go, then turned back momentarily to Kel.  
  
"Good to meet another soldier, Mindelan."  
  
Kel nodded in response. "Likewise, Clegane."  
***  
Nealan of Queenscove stuck the tip of the feather into his mouth as he thought about the next line. What finished "you are my..." and had two syllables, and was appropriately romantic?  
  
_Damn it all_. He'd been here for barely two months, and already he had a pile of over a hundred bits of parchment with love poems for Yukihimi on them. Mithros above, but he missed his wife.  
  
"Hey, Merric, what's a romantic noun or adjective with two syllables?" Kel would have been his first choice, given her knowledge of Yamani poetry, but she was out with the King and Lord Stark on some hunting trip.  
  
Merric looked up from his copy of _Thee Kynges of Yon Sevene Kyngdomes_ that he was reading for research. "Delight?"  
  
"Used it already today."  
  
"True love?"  
  
"Used it."  
  
"Sunshine?"  
  
"Oh, good one. Alright, does this sound--where are you going?"  
  
Merric shook his head emphatically. "I'm not listening to your poetry, Neal, this has been a rule since our first year as pages."  
  
Neal sniffed dramatically. "Barbarians. No appreciation for the proper arts of romance."  
  
It was then that three sparrows flew in shrieking. Neal and Merric, being experienced with Kel's birds, immediately dropped their materials, grabbed their swords from where they were leaning on Merric's bed, and bolted for the door with the sparrows in the lead.  
  
"What do you think it is?" asked Merric as they ran.  
  
"Damned if I know," Neal replied. "We haven't been called yet, the two times the sparrows got upset here they only got Kel and Lord Stark."  
  
The sparrows led them out into the grounds of the castle, Lady Stark arriving at a similar run (also led by sparrows, and for once without Dog the direwolf at her heels) as they went. She barely had time to begin a confused question about what the birds wanted before the sparrows shot upwards, and she gasped in shock.  
  
"Bran! Oh gods, get down from there!"  
  
"I made it to the top, Mother!"  
  
"Oh, shit," Merric muttered. "Lady Stark, you want me to go inside, pick the kid up from in there?"  
  
"No, I'll do it. Bran! Climb inside that top window, I'll come up and get you!"  
  
"I'll catch him if he falls," promised Merric.  
  
The lady dashed inside as Bran slowly worked his way down to the top window and ducked inside. The kid poked his head out and waved.  
  
"Stay there, kid, your mother's coming to get you!" yelled Merric. Neal muttered a curse as he tried to attach his sword and sheath to his belt.  
  
He snapped his head upwards as Lady Stark screamed and Merric swore. The woman was in a window several floors below Bran, and--Neal realized that someone was pushing her out as she begged for mercy just as Merric threw the door to the tower open and dashed for the stairs.  
  
Then Lady Stark lost her grip (shoved, Neal noted, by a hand) and screamed in terror as she crashed to the ground.  
  
"Merric!" yelled Neal. "Go get the healer, Luwin, do it now!" He dropped his sword and dashed to the moaning Lady Stark's side. "Shit--broken femur, fractured ribs, why the fuck is there so much blood?" He checked Lady Stark's eyes quickly--unfocused at first, but she locked on to his face after a moment, two moments...damn, that was too slow, she might be concussed, especially the way her head lolled limply and her breath came unevenly. "Lady Stark, I need to turn you over to check your leg, there's more blood than there should be."  
  
"The Queen," the lady gasped, and whimpered as her ribs announced their displeasure. "The Queen, she...she...the Queen, I saw..."  
  
"Don't try to talk, you have broken ribs. I need you to stay calm and stay awake, alright? Don't close your eyes, whatever you do." He turned away for a moment. "Guards! GUARDS! Lady Stark's been injured, I need assistance NOW!" He turned back; oh, shit, her femur. Femoral artery. "Gods damn it all, where's my medical kit? Alright, my lady, I need you to be very still, alright?" She nodded and whimpered what sounded like assent. Neal took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together, and blew it out. "It is imperative that you not fight me on this; it will itch and hurt at first but then the pain will stop." He summoned his Gift, and sent his power into the wounded leg, aiding the green fire a little by easing the broken leg back into position. Catelyn screamed in pain and Neal felt another injury spike against his magic--damn it! He'd forgotten to give her something to bite down on, that was an entry-level mistake!  
  
Then rough hands grabbed him and yanked him back just as he got the bone sutured.  
  
"Oi! Get offa the Lady, demon!"  
  
Regular perception returned to Neal, and he swore, shoving the man who'd grabbed him and getting a bruised wrist against the man's armor for his trouble as he scrambled to his feet. "You fools, let me work! I need to seal her artery or she's going to bleed out! MERRIC! I NEED MY DAMN HEALER'S KIT, NOW!"  
  
Someone yelped in shock, and a large, furry shape forced itself up beside Neal. He spared a glance; it was the giant wolf, Dog, with Jump hanging heroically from her tail and trying in vain to hold the larger animal back. Neal swore again, enough to give his grandmother, gods bless her soul with swift judgement, a minor heart attack. "Back up! I need room to work!"  
  
"You ain't puttin' any 'o your fancy magic fire shite into our Lady again!"  
  
Neal turned, furious. "Listen to me, you brainless halfwit born of an oaf! She is _dying_ here! Her femoral artery is ruptured, she will bleed out and die from the blood loss and internal trauma in less than an hour if I don't heal her! Now unless you, and you _personally_ , want to explain to Lord Stark how your idiotic superstition was responsible for his wife's death, be my godsdamned guest! If you _actually give a damn_ about her life, back the Realm of Chaos off and _let me work_ before the Black God takes her!"  
  
The tirade actually sent the man a single staggering step backwards. Neal turned dismissively back to his patient, and knelt by her side again. Someone, an older man, was telling the soldiers to make way. Another someone, a kid, probably Bran, was screaming for his mother. Neal forced his perception aside and dove into the stream of his Gift's power, the magic seeing bitten tongue, broken ribs, internal bleeding, ruptured femoral artery...there. Use the power to cut circulation on either end, push the blood out of the body cavity fluids, seal the artery, use the power to weld the suture--an archaic term, but it helped him visualize it better--open circulation slowly, start re-sealing layers of flesh. Good. Leave the skin raw, gods he was going to be tired after this. Ribs, repair those, someone had given something to Lady Stark so she wasn't moving, but he was still reading nerve activity fizzing and popping along the stream of his power...mend the bones, nothing complicated, thankfully just simple fractures but he'd need to tell her to be careful for a few weeks just in case, quick patch job on the tongue since he was almost out of power, pull out, remember to dose with medication just in case of infection...  
  
And he was out, and he gasped for breath, noting that the sun had moved on considerably in the sky. The lady was sleeping now, the old man, Luwin looking up at Neal from where he'd been tending to her as Neal stumbled back and landed on his behind. Gods. That had taken a lot out of him, almost as bad as that time at Haven with the man who had the cardiac ulcer.  
  
"She needs...needs medicines, something to stop the infection. Oral and topical. No pounding on her ribs for at least two weeks, I had to rush the sutures. No running, or riding, and only light walking on that leg for two weeks." He scrabbled for his kit, which one of the guardsmen handed him almost reverentially. Luwin forestalled him with a hand.  
  
"I know of herbs that will suffice. I must thank you, my boy. The feat that you have performed here today...it has been unseen since the Age of Heroes."  
  
"Merric. Where's Merric?"  
  
"Ser Merric's out gettin' His Lordship," the guardsman by Neal's side, who Neal recognized as the same one from before, responded. "Th' Queen and th' Kingslayer were here, and Lord Robb and Lady Sansa and Lady Arya and Lord Rickon. We 'ad to hold 'em back, your lordship."  
  
"I'm not a lordship, just a "sir" if you really must," Neal rasped, pulling his emergency water flask out of his kit and gulping it down. "I only use 'lordship' when I mean to pull noble privilege on someone. You did well today, by the way. I assumed that the Gift was known here; clearly, I was wrong. You did well, trying to defend your lady. I shall inform Lord Stark of your excellent loyalty, but I must request that next time, you _leave the bloody healer to do his godsdamn work undisturbed_!"  
  
"Yes, ser. Understood, ser."  
  
Neal let himself slump back onto his back. "Now if we could please have several men to carry me to my rooms, and to gently move Lady Stark under Master Luwin's direction, that would be excellent. I..." he yawned massively, "I don't think I can stay awake much longer."  
***  
Fat oaf or not, Sir Merric of Hollyrose had to admit, the King showed proper respect for his friend's wife.  
  
Merric had reached the hunting party just as the King was celebrating his victory in melee combat over a great stag, but he had immediately sealed his wineskin and ordered an immediate return to Winterfell even before Merric had finished his tale. Lord Stark was on his horse and at a full gallop less than a minute after Merric had told him of his wife's injury.  
  
The King followed as a slightly slower but by no means sedate pace, clearly worried about his friend's wife and constantly urging the party's stragglers to keep up in an increasingly angry bellow. Kel had followed Lord Stark with a group of his household knights who rode fresh horses, but Merric had been forced to stay with the King and his party due to his own horse's weariness.  
  
It was about an hour after Lord Stark's return when they arrived back at the castle, shortly before dark when Lady Stark's injury had occurred around midday. Lord Stark was in a quiet rage, ordering a sweep of the grounds and demanding that whoever had dared lay hands on his wife be brought to him immediately. The King added his own bellow to this, commanding Clegane (who honestly looked rather happy about it) away from Joffrey for once to participate in the sweep. The Lady herself was up in Lord Stark's rooms, to which Lord and King swiftly left.  
  
Tyrion Lannister provided the most apt summary of the day over drinks with Merric around midnight: "I think that a great deal of Business of the Realm-type shit was just launched in a storm into the air today. You know what I mean?" Merric grunted and nodded sagely and turned back to his watery ale.  
  
_Odd_ , he thought. _We didn't find anything in the tower except for signs of a struggle in that one room. Somebody must've been in there to push her out, though...and why? The bed was disturbed, did someone try to rape her? But no, not after Kel and Lord Stark made a public example of that one bandit three weeks ago, it would take a complete idiot, not even a madman, to try that, and her clothes were intact. So why was she pushed, and who did it?_  
  
It would have to wait until Lady Stark awoke from the sleep that she'd been put into on the orders of Luwin and Neal for the next several days. Merric would have to have a word with Kel and some of the other guardsmen, they needed the castle locked down. Merric had effectively run security for two consecutive refugee camps, with all the difficulties that that entailed; working with the Cassels and Kel to time the patrols and sweeps would be child's play by comparison.  
  
The next night, a man tried to kill Lady Stark in her bed, but had his throat torn out by Dog the wolf as Jump tore out one of his ankle tendons. Merric thought the matter settled, then; someone had been trying to kill the lady, probably on a rival lord's orders. He and Ser Rodrick confided as much to Lord Stark, who ground his teeth with rage and announced based on Kel, Merric, and Ser Rodrick's advice that he was accepting the King's offer at once and wished to go south immediately to investigate the affairs of the other lords of the realm, to discover who might wish to do his lady wife harm.  
  
On the whole, Merric was happy to be left behind, even if it did mean letting Kel and Neal and Jump and several of the sparrows go south to King's Landing with Lord Stark. He and Ser Rodrick and young Robb Stark would manage just fine as the men of the fort, right?  
  
Two days later, Lady Stark woke up, with no memory of anything since the morning of her injury. She swore that she could remember flashes of _something_ from the event itself, but she wasn't sure _what_. Merric's suspicions, which should have been quieted, continued to bubble.  
  
The Kingslayer and the Queen had been there, when Neal had been healing Lady Stark. And nobody had ever quite been able to tell just _where_ they came from.  
***  
_The Ruby Ford._  
  
"Hold it higher, there you go. Now, on guard, left, right, low, high, twist, sweep. Got it?"  
  
Arya nodded, her gaze focused as she raised her lead-weighted wooden training sword (Kel had had it made by a carpenter on the way through the Neck) and swung it in the drill Kel had prescribed. Kel watched with a keen eye, and nodded. "Good! Do that twenty more times, then we start changing up the pattern a little. Keep the force behind those swings, but also the control!"  
  
So far, the trip South had been uneventful. Joffrey was a snide, passive-aggressive little brat, the Queen was--Kel had no other word for her--a bitch, and Clegane was, while not the worst of men, also rather surly company.  
  
The King had drunkenly tried to fondle Kel's rear exactly once before she'd laid him out flat with a Shang trick she'd learned as a page, and only one thing had prevented Ser Barristan Selmy (a stern but altogether decent-seeming man in his later middle age) from attacking Kel on the spot; the King struggling to his feet and demanding that she do that again so he could learn to do it, too.  
  
For a drunken lecher who'd clearly seen the kraken several times too many and come out the worse for it, the King was a decent man, at least by this world's standards. Lord Stark certainly seemed close to the King, despite their occasional arguments, and Kel was willing to trust the North-Man's judgement. After hearing the King drunkenly weep over his lost betrothed, she couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. Besides, he liked her well enough (admittedly as a sort of curiosity, but after a friendly duel with Clegane he seemed impressed with her sword arm as well), and he was just too damn _open_ to be a bully, even in the depths of his cups as he drank and feasted himself to an early grave. There were better kings and better men, but there were also many worse.  
  
Now, however, Kel was teaching Lord Stark's younger daughter the sword down by the local river, something that Lord Stark had given his tacit but somewhat disapproving consent to. Arya was a quick study, Kel had discovered, and very eager about her training.  
  
Her other pupil, Bran Stark, was younger and more methodical, but no less eager. He'd already had a touch of training from his brothers and Ser Rodrick, but his fundamentals were still a little shaky. Kel was not one to pass judgement, but Ser Rodrick was clearly a guard-captain first and a teacher second, unlike Kel's training master, Sir Wyldon. If this world had no formal knightly academy or King's Own training units...gods, she'd hate to be a commander here, running a war must be miserable. And Lord Stark hadn't known what a refugee camp was, though he had taken to the idea once she explained....  
  
Kel set her musings aside to correct Bran's stance again. "Shoulder width, Bran. Knees a little bent, alright?"  
  
"Oh, look, it's the woman who wants to be a man and the little wolf bitch," sneered a teenaged boy. A young woman half-giggled nervously in response. Kel set her very best Yamani blank face as she recognized Joffrey's signature arrogant whine, and stood.  
  
"I am sorry, Prince Joffrey, but I am certain that you did not just say what I think that you just said." Kel's polite smile did not reach her eyes, and she firmly grabbed Arya's shoulder as the girl made an aggressive move towards Joffrey. "I am absolutely certain that you did not intend to offer grievous insult to the daughter of your father's Hand of the King?"  
  
Joffrey drew his sword. Kel's face didn't twitch, but she shoved Bran and Arya behind her. "Put away the sword, now, please."  
  
Joffrey sneered. "You don't give me orders, sellsword whore! I am the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms!"  
  
"Arya, Bran, get back to your father, now, no arguments." Arya started to protest, but Kel gripped her shoulder again and she quieted. "No arguments, go." Kel stalked forwards, calmly, but with muscles taut for rapid movement. “Your Highness, put down the sword. Sansa, get away from him, now.”  
  
Joffrey sniggered, grabbing Sansa’s arm as she tried to slip away. “Where are you going, my lady? The sellsword slut can’t touch me, or I’ll have her head for harming a Prince!”  
  
Kel moved like lightning. Her sword, Griffin, lashed out, and Joffrey’s blade clanged to the ground as the Prince yelped in terror. “Let. Her. Go.”  
  
Joffrey’s pants darkened and the rank smell of urine wafted up as he backed away from Sansa in terror, falling flat on his behind in the process. Kel kept Griffin pointed at his chest, stepped one boot firmly onto Joffrey’s own blade, and turned one eye toward Sansa. “Are you alright, my lady? Did he hurt you?”  
  
“Why did you attack him?” Sansa asked, wide-eyed with terror. “He’ll be angry now, I’ve been trying to protect Arya from his anger...”  
  
“You don’t need to worry about this little brat’s anger,” growled Kel, who’d dealt with enough abusive relationships in her time to know one on sight. “If he tries anything, I’ll protect you. Did he give you anything to drink?”  
  
“Just...just some wine...from a skin he brought...” Sansa blinked and shook her head. Kel moved slightly to put herself more directly between the cowering little shit and her charge.  
  
“Right. Your father should be here soon, then we’ll...”  
  
Lord Stark himself crashed through the brush, his massive greatsword drawn, with the Kingslayer, the Hound, and six men-at-arms behind him. He took in the scene in a second, then lowered his blade and moved to take Sansa. “Thank you for protecting my daughter, Keladry. Sansa, are you safe?”  
  
“She hit me!” whined Joffrey. “The sellsword slut hit my sword out of my hand, like a dirty cheater! I DEMAND her head for this insult!”  
  
The Hound looked at Joffrey, then at Kel, then at Joffrey, and guffawed. Ser Jaime was unreadable, but his sword was out.  
  
“DOG! Stop your laughing! Defend me, you stupid idiot! Kill the Northern dogs and the sellsword slut!” screeched Joffrey. Lord Stark glared at him with icy eyes.  
  
The Hound shrugged and motioned at Kel. “I’m not paid enough to fight her, damn it.” But he moved over to stand by Joffrey anyway. “No offense, Mindelan. Business, you know?” Kel shrugged noncommittally in response.  
  
“I’ll take my nephew back to the camp,” suggested Ser Jaime, attempting to break the tension. “Lord Stark, may I recommend that you take your daughter back to your own tents? I have no desire to fight a war over a boy’s whims.”  
  
Lord Stark looked up from Joffrey, his eyes colder than a Midwinter snow, but slowly nodded. “A wise idea. Perhaps we shall discuss this incident again, before the King, when we have time to...calm down, so as to avoid any unfortunate accidents.” Clegane snorted, and sheathed his sword.  
  
“Dog, get your sword back out! Kill that sellsword bitch!” whined Joffrey. Lord Stark’s jaw clenched. Clegane spat to his side. Ser Jaime sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I apologize for my nephew, Lord Stark. We should depart at once before another misunderstanding arises.”  
  
Joffrey squealed for Kel’s head again, but the Hound grabbed him at the Kingslayer’s motion, and hauled the brat away, kicking and screaming. Kel picked up the boy’s sword and handed it to Ser Jaime, who accepted it with a polite nod before returning through the brush to the royal procession’s camp again.  
  
When they woke up the King, his rage, possibly in part due to his hangover, was quite the sight to behold. He and the Queen ended up screaming at and eventually slapping each other for almost half an hour, as Kel watched and tried very hard not to gape. Eventually the Queen retired in rage and the King ruled that since nobody had been harmed, the only problems were his son being a disappointment, and he left any “discipline” of Kel or the Stark children to Lord Stark’s discretion, saying “you’re the sensible one here, Ned, you deal with it, I need to get drunk.” Lord Stark’s punishment for Kel was an order to go watch the King to make sure that he didn’t actually drink himself to death, which ended with Kel and the King winning a bar fight and free drinks for life at a nearby tavern.  
***  
“You’re competing, too?” Kel asked. Sandor Clegane, who she’d been the designated sober person for most nights since their arrival in King’s Landing, nodded with a grunt.  
  
“Yeah. Gives me a shot at beating Gregor. He’s in the joust. It’s not that he’s even that good, he’s just so fucking big that he beats people.”  
  
Kel nodded in understanding. “I know the sort. I figure we’ve both beaten them before, eh?”  
  
“Yeah. Hey, Mindelan? If I die, kill him good for me, will you?”  
  
“Sure, Clegane. Need help with the buckles?”  
  
“I’ll do you, you do me.”  
  
“Deal.” Kel cinched the buckles of Clegane’s breastplate, slapped it to check, and nodded. “You’re good. Get me.”  
  
Clegane was quick and efficient, and his check of the plate firm. “Good.” He grabbed his dog helm and donned it as Kel donned her own. “Good luck out there, Mindelan.”  
  
“Likewise, Clegane.”  
  
The tournament was a big one, even by the standards that Kel was used to. Lord Stark was the guest of honor, sitting by the King with their families, but most of the spectators were in a crowded mass of commoners who cheered for their favorites and jeered at the ones they didn’t like, just like at Tortallan tourneys. Kel used the opportunity to scope out the competition.  
  
Her first opponent was one Wyldyr Frey, apparently a minor member of a famously fecund house. He had poor stance, and Kel had the weight advantage, unhorsing him easily on the second tilt.  
  
Her second tilt was not until the late afternoon, allowing her time to watch the archery competition, which came down to a neck-and-neck shooting contest between a dark-skinned man of an ethnicity Kel didn’t know and a man who looked like a Copper Islander, ending with the dark-skinned man’s victory after a judge’s decision. The second tilt was against a lord called Jason Mallister, which Kel won when his saddle girth snapped and sent him flying. She shook her head as she rode off the field; Lord Wyldon had spent what seemed like hours every day drilling into his pages the idea that damaged equipment was only a danger to its user. Mallister should’ve remembered to check his gear.  
  
Kel’s third tilt was the next day, against Clegane. They hammered each other into bruised masses fifteen times, shattering thirty tourney lances, before she finally levered Clegane out of his seat as she passed. The Hound took it well, accepting her hand up to the cheers of the crowd. Kel asked Neal to take care of his bruises when her friend stopped by her tent to patch her up.  
  
Her fourth tilt was against Loras Tyrell, a famed warrior known as the Knight of Flowers. Kel knew that he’d been riding a mare for most of the tourney, and she bet that he was counting on his opponents’ stallions becoming excited. Well, Peachblossom would surprise him.  
  
Kel took her place on the lists and saluted her opponent, who waved to the ladies in the crowd (earning sighs and squeals of excitement) before donning his helm. Kel readied her lance, and whispered a quick encouragement to Peachblossom, who snorted as if to say _please, do I look like a colt? I know what I’m doing_.  
  
The trumpets blew. Peachblossom moved.  
  
Ser Loras Tyrell lowered his lance perfectly on time, his shield in proper position and his form flawless. Kel responded with the same.  
  
Unfortunately, Ser Loras’s mare lacked Peachblossom’s raw power. The ornately-armored man’s saddle slipped slightly, and he fell sideways and backwards as his horse reared with a shriek, and he barely held on to his seat. Kel turned and began to trot back to her place, but the trumpets blew and the judge announced her the winner.  
  
Ser Loras wasn’t very polite, despite his glowing reputation; even the Frey, supposedly from a family infamous for poor manners as well as many offspring, had grudgingly saluted Kel after their joust. Ser Loras simply stormed off in a huff.  
  
Kel was feeling rather optimistic, given the low caliber of her opponents this tourney, when she discovered her opponent for the next day’s final joust.  
  
Ser Gregor Clegane. Sandor’s evil brother, the Mountain.  
  
Well, shit.  
***  
“You’re completely insane!” Neal ranted for the tenth time. “Deserting to go after the Gallan was one thing, but Kel, they call him the Mountain that Rides! He’s eight feet tall and built like a tauros!”  
  
“You’ve mentioned this,” Kel noted, double-checking her armor. “You know I’m not going to listen.”  
  
Neal swore and muttered something about Mithros preserving him from the whims of madwomen. “If you die, I’m not going to go to the Black God’s realm to pull you out like a story, you know that?”  
  
“Neal, I’m not going to die. I might need some bones healed, but I’m not going to die.”  
  
“He killed a man, Ser Hugh of the Vale, on the lists on his first tilt! Kel, this is madness!”  
  
“You mentioned that, as well, and I told you the same then; I am not a green knight, new at the jousts.”  
  
Neal muttered another curse. “Damn it, Kel. We need you alive—me, Merric, Lord Stark, the children; there’s something going on, Kel. Someone tried to kill Lady Stark, in her bed. She saw something in that tower, Kel. Something that people are willing to kill for. We’re in danger here, and if you die...you’re the best fighter I know, bar the Lioness, and a better commander than anybody I’ve met in this land yet. Without you, we’ll have to rely on those idiot goldcloaks to protect the family, and I don’t trust Janos Slynt an inch.”  
  
“Neal.” Kel’s voice was firm. “I’m not going to die. I saw how the Mountain killed Ser Hugh, and I promise you that I won’t fall for that. You know me, Neal. You’ve seen me joust. I’m taking that brutish bully down, and I’m most definitely not going to die.”  
  
Neal swore again, then sighed. “Well, I’m not going to talk you out of it, so...good luck out there.”  
  
Kel buckled on her gloves and grabbed her helmet. “Thank you, Neal. And if I get hurt...”  
  
Neal rolled his eyes. “I won’t heal you all the way, so that you have a few days of pain to remind you of your mistakes.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“I heard that lesson enough from the Lioness,” Neal muttered as he left. “She and Sir Raoul must’ve heard it from the same insane person.”  
***  
Kel breathed calmly and easily as she took her place. Peachblossom flicked his ears. Ser Gregor’s stallion was big, but unruly; he’d probably been bred for aggression rather than the sheer nastiness that Peachblossom had been born with. Ser Gregor himself was a titanic brute, easily head-and-shoulders larger than Sandor, with a massive bucket helm with a carved metal fist protruding from the top. His sword, buckled by his hip, was a massive thing almost as big as Lord Stark’s Ice.  
  
This was going to be painful.  
  
The trumpet blew. Peachblossom charged, his ears flat, throwing himself into the joust like Kel hadn’t seen in years. Ser Gregor’s stallion lunged forwards as well, the massive knight lowering his lance. His posture was poor, Kel noted, as he grew closer. She needed to keep her shield up and lever her lance like _so_...  
  
The hammer of a god hit her shield, and Peachblossom stumbled to a halt. The crash of metal filled the air, as did a horse’s neigh and the yell of the crowd as Kel tried to haul herself back into place. She righted herself after a brief struggle, turning Peachblossom to see...  
  
The Mountain lay on the ground, trying to roll to his feet, and the crowd was on its feet, cheering and howling. Kel cantered back along the lists, saluting the crowd as they cheered her name, and dismounted by the end of the list...  
  
A woman screamed, high and sharp. Kel turned, just in time to see Gregor Clegane behead his horse with one swipe of his blade, blood gushing into the air. He turned towards Kel, raising the massive sword.  
  
“YOU’RE DEAD NOW, SLUT! NOBODY DEFEATS THE MOUNTAIN!”  
  
_Damn_.  
  
The Mountain charged, and Kel moved to meet him, hoping to keep the brute away from Peachblossom. The sparrows that had come to King’s Landing were watching Arya Stark—damn, she needed to finish this herself.  
  
The King was roaring something. Kel saw an armored form drop from the stands from the corner of her eye, but then the Mountain’s blade was swinging and she caught it on her shield, and she was on her knee and the Mountain roared and his sword came around from the side, and she barely got Griffin up in time to block him...  
  
Kel crashed into the wood of the list, hellfire that man was strong! She hauled herself to her feet, saw him coming for her, and braced herself.  
  
This time her parry caught the giant’s blade and stopped it, and Kel’s fine Yamani steel took a chip out of the giant sword.  
  
Then another armored form was beside her, and Kel recognized the helmet, and Sandor Clegane chopped at his brother’s side, forcing the giant to block with his shield. Kel attacked, going on the offensive and barely being blocked by the Mountain as he roared with rage and slammed at the Hound with his shield. Sandor stumbled back, and Kel disengaged, gaining a moment’s breath. She spared a glance for the Hound, who returned the look, and they nodded simultaneously.  
  
Then the Mountain roared again and lunged for his brother.  
  
Sandor blocked the huge man’s overhand chop with desperate strength, and Kel lunged for the Mountain’s unguarded flank, taking him in the back of the knee and pulling away behind him as Gregor roared and spun, Kel barely ducking a slash of the giant sword that would’ve taken her head. The Mountain snarled and slammed Kel with his shield, knocking her flat on her back as her foot slipped in some dust, but then Sandor stabbed his shoulder, cutting through a weak point in his shoulder guards and slicing muscle and tendon. Gregor howled as his sword arm went limp.  
  
“This is for Elia Martell, who you raped to death in front of her child!” roared the Hound, slashing his brother’s other knee-tendons out and kicking him in the wound Kel had given him to drive the brute to his knees in a crash of metal. The Mountain screamed and tried in vain to rise, but the Hound wasn’t done. “This is for my sister, who you beat to death in her own bed!” Sandor rammed his sword into his brother’s other shoulder, and twisted, half-tearing it off. The Mountain crashed to the ground, struggling futilely to move. The Hound moved around him, kicking off the great helmet and raising his sword. “And this is for me, you fucking whoreson!” He slashed down.  
  
There was silence, but for Kel’s and the Hound’s gasps for breath. The Hound stumbled back, letting out a faint giggle of laughter as his brother’s head rolled free. “He’s dead! Ha! He’s fucking dead! I fucking won! Fuck you, Gregor! I fucking won! I’m fucking free! Fuck you, ‘Ser’ Gregor! Ha, ha, ha!”  
  
“Hey, Clegane?” asked Kel. “A hand up here?”  
  
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” The scarred man offered Kel a hand, and pulled her to her feet. She kept her hold of him and lifted his hand into the air.  
  
“The winner of the day!” Keladry shouted, and the crowd, King included, went wild.


End file.
